


Who I Might`ve Been

by Greeneyesthickthighs



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, F/M, Gen, Manipulation, Plotting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-06 20:00:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1870521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greeneyesthickthighs/pseuds/Greeneyesthickthighs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eight lives Margaery might have lived.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Margaery Greyjoy

Theon knows he should be ashamed of himself because he’s crying into his arms, sobs shaking his shoulders and making him quake, praying his brothers won’t hear about this because they’d never let him live it down. He’s ironborn, made of salt and steel but the sound of the wind and the crash of lightning is too much for a five year old boy.

Arms embrace him, the comforting smell of lavender in his nose and long curly brown hair stuck to the tears on his cheeks when he buries his head in her chest, allowing her to rock him and whisper comforting words in his hair. It’s Margaery, kind Margaery who softens their jagged brother Rodrick, calms wild Maron, sweetens coarse Asha and dotes upon her youngest brother, protecting him from the rest of their siblings with the ferocity of a windstorm.

“Hush”, Margaery whispers, “Hush now little brother, the wind will not hurt you.”

Theon falls asleep in her arms, knowing that Margaery will stay awake to hold him, rock him, whisper to him until the storm passes and takes his fear with it.


	2. Margaery the Slave

She does not remember her original name, the one her mother called her. She likes to imagine it was a beautiful name, a Lyseni one that rolls off the tongue and gives the impression of beauty and wealth. The brothel master called her Margaery, a Westerosi name that pleases her clients. They are able to pronounce it when they pinch her flesh, spend themselves in her body, soil her innocence. She swallows her shame; it is not half as bitter as moon tea. 

Then Daenerys Targaryen, breaker of chains, mother of dragons, the most beautiful woman she’s ever seen comes to the gates of her city with her dragons and burns the masters, strikes the chains off the slaves and Margaery is free. She is brought into Daenerys’ service by chance, a good word for her name and her loyalty to those above her by a fellow former slave, and she finds herself being paid wages to do less than she did in her former life. 

Now there are no men rutting between her thighs, no costumers to please and she doesn’t have to force herself to smile, because she has something real to smile about, has her freedom, her life back, the opportunities denied to her from the day her mother sold her to the pleasure houses of Lys.

She is supposed to be cleaning her chambers, but her Khaleesi is lonely now, with Jorah a banished traitor, Daario gone, Barristan busy with the defense of the city, Missandei refusing to come near her, let alone talk with her of private matters, personal matters, so Daenerys flits about on her heels as she wonders about the room, creating order from mess. 

“My brother, Viserys, bought a Lyseni pleasure girl for me a long time ago, to teach me to please my husband. Her name was Doreah? Did you know her?” Daenerys asks her, fiddling with the edge of her tokar. Margaery tries not to focus her attention on Daenerys, especially in such revealing garb, but cannot help her traitourous eyes wandering to the breast the Queen readily exposes. 

“No, your grace, I did not know her.” The Queen’s naivety about the free cities unnerves her, makes her wonder how effective a ruler she shall be if she doesn’t understand the basic economies and markets of the cities she rules. “There are many pleasure houses in Lys, and many girls within each establishment.”

“Were you born in a pleasure house? Was your mother a-‘’ Daenerys breaks off, unsure of how to phrase it and trying her best not to offend this fascinating, brown eyed creature that whirled about her chamber like a siren, enticing her with large brown eyes, the curve of her breasts beneath her thin cotton shift, the stretch of her thin legs and the expanse of her shoulders. 

“Whore?” The girl questions, and for the coarseness of the word, there is no heat in the word, her voice devoid of the scorn or defensiveness Daenerys expected. Still, the word spilling from a former pleasure slaves lips makes her uncomfortable, and Daenerys turns, pretending to busy herself with a stack of letters on her desk. 

The room is silent for a while, and when Daenerys turns back around, Margaery has slipped from her dress and is baring her body to the world. Her creamy skin seems to glow in the sunlight, the elegant lines of her body making desire pool in the Queens stomach, the thatch of brown hair between her legs, the freckles dotted over two pert breasts with rosy nipples.

Margaery steps closer and closer still, until her breasts brush the bodice of Daenerys’ dress. “If your grace would like, I could teach you a few tricks myself?” She does not wait for assent to cup the breast exposed by the tokar, brushing soft thumbs over pert nipples and smiling when they stiffened quickly, inhaling the lusty gasp of the woman in front of her.

Daenerys can only nod her assent, and steps out of her tokar. 

“Well then your grace, lesson number one –“ and kneels before her.


	3. Margaery of Tarth

Since they were young girls, both have known the truth, how other people looked at them. When her father had to hire special seamstresses to sew large dresses for her sisters frame, while her dresses came from Tyrosh, from Pentos, from the best seamstresses in the Stormlands, or that her father received dozens of offers for Margaery's hand before she reached the age of eleven, while Brienne received only one at age fourteen, from a rude Caron boy that Margaery took one look at and sent packing before the sun had set. Her sister is her best friend, her other half and Margaery is fiercely protective of her. They are all each other have had throughout their lives, their mother dying while birthing their last stillborn sister.

They are nineteen and sixteen when Renly Baratheon raises his banners in rebellion and declares himself king, the act of a vain, stupid boy vying for power that isn't his to claim. She argued with her father while they packed, both girls being moved into the war camp to protect them from the recent surge of pirates around the Sapphire Isle, the bandits hitting the first region of the Stormlands from Dragon Stone where the other would-be-King Stannis resided.

In the war camp, Brienne thrives (or at least she tries to) Becoming a knight has always been her sister's dearest ambition, and she looks close to finally achieving it. Her father is obviously disapproving, going so far to reproach her sister but King Renly claps when she knocks a Tyrell hedge knight to the ground, sweating so fiercely it pushes her wiry blonde hair into spikes, her broad face flushed red with exertion and embarrassment from her Kings praise. This quiets her father, and he speaks no more to Brienne as she continues her boyish behaviour throughout the camp, entering in competitions and training with the other men.

Margaery herself is quite the commodity throughout camp, if only for her beauty and lude jokes. The men seem to quite enjoy her jokes, and she struts through the camp singing brash songs and smiling at handsome men. It is on one such night when she's readily performed the Dornishmens Wife that she persuades handsome Ser Tanton Fossoway to escort her back to her tent _(and hopefully her bed)_ and endures his everlasting tales of squirehood and the many battles he's claimed to have fought in.

Regretting her decision, she looks for a distraction from him, someone to save her. Up ahead, the tall figure of a woman with large shoulders appears around a tent and her heart swells with relief. She excuses herself from Ser Tanton and bidding him goodnight, relishing in his disappointment she strides toward Brienne. She pauses when she sees who her sister is talking to, because her father may say nothing of her antics in camp but she knows enough to not interrupt a Kings conversation. This gives her a few moments to observe her sister as she has not done since they arrived in camp. Her face is flushed again, her pretty blue eyes (their mother's eyes) are unblinking and owlish as she stares at King Renly and Margaery feels something like shock, and then pity and then excruciating anguish because her sister is in love with Renly Baratheon and he will never love her back, because she is not rich enough, or gracious or most especially not beautiful enough to be his Queen.

She'd toyed with the idea of seducing the young handsome King herself, until one early morning she'd awoken from a nightmare in a cold sweat and had sought fresh air, stepping out of her tent she had found something else much more valuable; a Kings dirty little secret. Margaery stood in the shadows, observing Loras Tyrell leaving their Kings tent, clothing half off his body, lips swollen to a scandalous degree and love bites scattered across his collarbone. If that had not been enough, the King had escorted him outside, kissing first his mouth, then his neck in goodbye as they went their separate ways. It became clear to her then that she lacked a few key parts to successfully seduce Renly Baratheon and she threw her plans away without a second thought.

This would not be easy, she thought, as she wandered back to her tent alone, schemes swirling around in her head. It will be messy, and Renly may never love her, but her sister looked at the King as if the sun rose and set with him. And let it never be said that Margaery of Tarth does not love her sister, that she would not do anything to secure her happiness. It is the next morning that she approaches Renly Baratheon just as he exits his tent on the way to breaking his fast with his generals. "Your grace?" She inquires, sidling up to the King and folding her hand into the crease of her arm without his consent, surprising him but he recovers gracefully.

"Lady Margaery, what a pleasant surprise." He flatters smoothly, gracing her with a charming smile. "May I presume to tell you that you look beautiful this morning?"

"You may," She allows, smiling prettily up at him. "How fares you this morning?"

"I am well, considering the large parties I am due to welcome all morning," He leans down, as if he is sharing his innermost secrets with her. "To tell the truth, I grow tired of welcoming my bannermen with the same speech day after day. There are moments I wish to just sit, drink wine and listen to one of your jokes." He is good this, she notes, flattery, small talk, drawing people in with charm and boyish grins.

"Yes I imagine it can be quite tiring," She admits, and her smile sharpens as she swoops in for the kill like a striking hawk. "Especially when the bannerman send their daughters to you so they can attempt to woo you. Although I suppose it is unlikely your Lords send their sons to you with the same intent they send their daughters." She watches smugly as the words sink in to Renly, the alarm settles over his face like a mask and wariness swirls in his lovely blue eyes.

Yet he responds "I am not quite sure I understand, my Lady."

" _Please_ , Lord Renly" Margaery purrs, stroking her fingers up his bicep. "I will not share your secret with anyone. I believe we can come to an understanding you and I."

Later that day, King Renly Baratheon trudges with purpose towards Lord Selwyn Tarth, interrupting his menial conversation with the Lords Grandison and Fossoway and abruptly asks for his daughter Brienne's hand in marriage. Renly is obviously uncomfortable with the incredulous stares those around him are shooting him. Though obviously confused and shocked beyond measure, her father agrees hastily, stewing over it later and congratulating himself on whatever he's done to make the King ask for Brienne's hand in marriage.

At the wedding the bannerman present wonder why their King asked for the hand of the daughter who looks utterly ridiculous in her purple and gold gown, her large chunky arms stretching the fabric unflatteringly, the maiden cloak much too short to reach the ground on her six foot frame, her flat chest emphasized by the dip of the neckline. They then turn their eyes to her sister, breathtaking in pale blue velvet, with rosy cheeks and a sparkling sapphire tiara, graceful even when motionless. All Margaery sees is the sparkle of her sister's beautiful blue eyes, the wideness of her smile and she sees the way Loras Tyrell's hands shake as he hands Renly the rings, the way Renly's eyes linger on Loras even when saying his vows.

Margaery of Tarth thinks suddenly that she's made a terrible mistake.


	4. Margaery Baratheon

Margaery was born amidst the grief of her mother and the anger of her father, born mere moments after her twin brother, Haman, who was born without a pulse. As her mother stared down at the dead son in her arms, looking to the wiggling bundle placed next to her on the bed in the wake of her husband's departure, she rages at the Gods. Why take the son and leave the daughter, a delicate creature incapable of softening her hard husband towards her, sheltering her from the disgrace of her whore of a cousin conceiving the Kings son in her marriage bed, birthing a healthy boy before she, a respectable married woman, was able to do so.

After allowing the corpse of her younger, desperately wanted child to be taken away, she looks down at her daughters slumbering face, slack in bliss. She is completely unaware of the unhappiness of her parents, the problems she has caused through being born of the lesser gender, the weaker gender.

Selyse looks down at her first-born and desperately wishes she could forget the look of rage on her husband's face when he saw whom she had birthed.

 _(What choice did I have?_ she wants to scream at him, _what choice did I have in what I birthed you my lord, my love, my husband)_

Her eldest daughter is the sweetest child Westeros has ever known, twirling through the castle with the kitchen wenches daughters as her only companions until Shireen grows old enough to toddle along behind her sister. Selyse often watches her two girls doing some sort of ritualistic walk, imagining two boys in their places as Margaery dips and curves her spine gracefully, Shireen trying and failing to emulate her poise. Selyse realizes that Margaery is teaching her sister how to curtsy, and the sight would warm her heart if this keep hadn't frozen it solid years ago with the death of her sons.

She will look back on that moment, the tenderness of her daughters hands to one another, their love when after allowing the corpse of her ugly, unwanted daughter is taken away, she looks down at her beautiful daughters slack face, the look of fear still clear in her half-open eyes (the same blue as her beloved Kings) She is completely unaware of the happiness of her mother, the joy of the one true God, the triumph of Melisandre.

Selyse looks down at her first-born and desperately wishes she could forget the look of rage on her husband's face when he saw what she had done.

 _(What choice did I have?_ She screams after him _, what choice did I have, it had to be done, for you, for us, for the one true God)_


	5. Margaery Martell

It’s an odd feeling, Margaery realizes, the feeling of a heart beating in tandem with yours, inches from one’s own with fear permeating the air.

She does not feel her niece squirming in her arms, nor the claw marks left by the little black puss as it scampered away, its animal instincts warning it of imminent danger. She does not feel the hard marble beneath her sharp nails, the sound of quick marching footsteps of soldiers outside the door, the shouts of men and the smashing of hundreds of years of history outside the door. Rhaenys begins to cry beneath her, little whimpering sobs that shake her and tears gathering in fathomless dark eyes that remind her so much of sweet little Arianne that it almost breaks her. The intense desire for home tightens her throat, the thoughts of the Water Gardens, of her brothers, of where she belongs.

It is Elia's scream that breaks her from her reverie and little Rhaenys begins to cry anew. The scream is long, ragged and ends so abruptly that there is no mistaking what has just taken place, the wails of sweet little Aegon notably absent.

Death chokes her, and she curls herself around Rhaenys and presses kisses into her curly hair, the same as Elia had done when she comforted her daughter moments before entrusting her safety to Margaery. She clings to Rhaenys, promising herself that no harm will come to her and when heavy footsteps lead a man with blood on his hands to Rhaegars room, when he pulls them out, wrapped around each other like weeds in the palace gardens, and rips her niece from her hands, she claws and kicks and scrapes her nails down his face, screaming in defiance.

_(This spares her niece the horror of a gruesome death by knife; just a simple quiet slice across the neck ends the life of innocent Rhaenys, the Queen that Never Would Have Been)_

This dashes the spirit from Margaery, the sight of the red smile, and she pauses without thought or care for her life. She tries to remember her lessons, her honor, what her brother taught her about defending herself against men such as this one.

And she tries, oh does she try when the man grabs at her hair, drawing his dagger and enraged at this Dornish whores impudence, at her defiance.

Margaery feels the pain as if she is separated from her body, because all she knows now is the taste of blood oranges, the heat of Dornish summers, Doran's sure hands teaching her to dance, Oberyn’s saucy laughter, Elia's silky braid, her mother's fierce temper and her father's kind eyes. 

_Unbowed, unbent, unbroken_ she whispers, as the knife descends once more.

(Oberyn will rage later, for his sisters. For sweet Elia and brave Margaery. For the sister he learned from, and the one he taught, the sisters who died for each other, and he will weep, and mourn and curse their fates. Doran will sob for his sisters, their beautiful ghosts haunt him , and he will pause and breathe and remind himself that one day justice will be served, by his own hand if need be. For it is the sun that blinds all beasts as the viper strikes true and deadly)


	6. Margaery Sand

 

Margaery has never troubled to learn the identity of her father, her mother was gone by the time she was old enough to understand that she had a father. So she began to listen to the rumours floating around, the speculations on who got the bastard on the great court beauty Ashara Dayne. Some claimed it was Barristan Selmy, the old Knight who loved her mother so fiercely he broke his sacred vows. Others claim it was Brandon Stark, the man who dishonored her mother at Harrenhal, or his brother, Ned Stark with whom her mother had danced with all night. There were even those bold enough to suggest it was her dead Uncle Arthur, but her uncle seemed so disgusted by the rumour she knew it was false.

So Margaery never spared a thought to her father, the distant figure in her mind that sent her letters her uncle burned before she could reach for them. She was eleven when her Uncle Allem sent her to be fostered in Sunspear with the Martell children, like her mother had so many years ago.

By the time she was a woman, the only father she needed was Oberyn Martell, who came to visit her regularly, who called her one of his daughters and told her she had the most beautiful eyes in the Seven Kingdoms, eyes like her mothers.

There were moments in childhood that she wished so fiercely that Oberyn was her father, but she did not look like his daughters in any way, their complexions and features those of Dornish beauty and scalding temperaments. Margaery herself was said to look the picture of her mother in her youth, long glossy hair falling down her back and luminous violet eyes. But it was her face that gave most people cause, the northern pale skin and long lashed eyes, the elegance of her straight nose and slender body. She wondered sometimes in the dead of night what her father looked like, if her mother would ever come back from wherever she’d went and wondered if Oberyn could tell her, and with the innocence of a girl dared to ask him when she saw him next.

The emotion on his face gathers and settles over him like a storm cloud, lightning flashing in his eyes when rage and regret settle on his shoulders, turning the corners of his mouth down. He opens his mouth and pauses, reminding himself that this girl knows nothing of the past, of towers, screams or the world outside Dorne. "Your mother is dead, sweet girl. Your father is too." 

It is then Margaery Sand learns not to get attached, because her mother left, her fathers gone and she is sand, she slips through fingers and dances in the wind, stormy rages blinding those caught up in it. Margaery Sand ceases to care.

_(Her fathers death will come to pass later in her life, later, when she awakes in a cold sweat screaming bloody murder the moment Ned Starks head is executed)_

She amuses herself with men, and women, or occasionally both as her life passes, unconcerned with the happenings outside of Dorne, sparing not a glance when Arianne’s plot ends with a mangled little girl and Nymeria and her sisters howl for the justice for their father's murder and Doran Martell is found dead in his chair when he receives word his elder son is dead. She does not trouble herself with the Dragon Queens landing, the sight of her dragons on the horizon both breathtaking and terrifying.

She is unconcerned with the Targaryen boy at Storms End until he arrives at Sunspear, Margaery is curled at the feet of Arianne’s chaise when he marches in, stunning in his golden armour, wielding a magnificent greatsword with a devilish smile. His eyes linger on her face, the beauty clear there and he falters. Margaery is long used to the lust of men but this is unusual, the look in his eye is surprised, shocked even yet knowing in a way that strains her nerves.

It is only later that she hears that Septa Lemore has drawn back her hood, thrown off her Septa’s robes and revealed her true identity, violet eyes triumphant at her Kings return to Westeros, bright at the thought she will be reunited with her daughter.

When word of this, of her mother, reaches Margaery the world that had become so unfocussed was suddenly stunningly clear to her, the truth of her situation, of the death of her friends, the death of Oberyn and what this will mean for her sweeps her off her feet and lands her in the most upper levels of the Tower of the Sun. None but royalty are allowed here, but one of Margaery’s many talents has been her ability to hide in the shadows, unseen until the moment of her choosing.

Her mother finds her there with her guard, her eyes wide at the sight of her daughter, the image of herself balancing on the windows edge, feet dangling off the pale marble floor and a serene smile on her face, as if she belongs here, hovering between life and death.

The guard advance, but the look that settles on the girls face stills them, they realize what is about to happen.

“Margaery, my pearl.” Ashara Dayne advances to her daughter, close enough to reach out and touch. “Sweet girl, come off that ledge. Talk to me, talk to your mother.”

“My mother is dead,” Margaery whispers, but in the anticipatory silence it carries like a scream. She stretches forward, allowing her mother hand to cup her chin. “And so am I.” She throws herself off that Tower of the Sun, as the world believed her mother had all those years ago.

 _I was the sand,_ she thinks as she descends quick and fluidly through the air, her fall unbroken by the see. _And now I am a falling star._


	7. Margaery Targaryen

Margaery Targaryen is nothing if not astute, and she realizes her husband's intentions far before the rest of the Kingdom ever catches on.

Margaery has known Rhaegar since birth, her following him close, clutching his ankle in her tiny pink fist, the act sealing their bond forever. They grew into lovely, studious children who played their parts well, treated each other kindly and did their duty when it came time, resulting in the sweet little girl skipping alongside her dragging her younger sister along and the third girl cradled to her breast in a swaddling blanket.

"Come along Rhaenys," She coos to her daughter and she rushes on long legs to keep pace with her mother, dragging her sister Visenya along behind her, her small sister running on chubby toddler legs to keep up. She hefts little Valaena up higher in her arms, her sturdy babe named after the woman who bore the Conqueror and his warrior sister-wives. She breezes through the palace with the aloofness of a true Targaryen and with the fire of Aegon the Conqueror brewing inside. She finds her husband in his solar with Ser Arthur Dayne and the White Bull, both of whom look up when she enters. Rhaegar remains focused on his books and it stings in a way she did not think he was capable of anymore.

"Leave us," She orders, watching silently as they hesitantly look back at Rhaegar before bowing and taking their leave.

"Daddy!" Rhaenys squeals happily, beginning to rush towards her father before her mother catches her shoulder, clutching her as fierce a dragon with its precious egg. It is Rhaenys voice that brings Rhaegars attention, and the look in his eyes frightens his daughter enough that she leans back into her mother's legs.

"Sister," Rhaegar nods in place of his usual _'wife'._ "What causes you to seek my company at such an early hour?" 

Margaery smiles, ignoring her husband in favour of watching her daughters clamber over to the plush chaise in the corner of the room, the place their father used to regale them with tales of dragons, magic, romance, adventure, whatever it was his girls desired that particular night, but no more. Now his doors remain shut, locked, the lamps turned down low and the only sound within the whispers of Rhaegar and his knights.

"I heard you were planning another trip around the Kingdoms, visiting each dominion within our realm to keep the peace in these troubled times," she says, Valaena`s fingers catching hers and holding it with the strength that outmatched both her elder sisters, even Viserys`, and in that moment she hates her husband for wishing Valaena had been born male. "How, husband, are we to conceive the male heir you so desperately desire if you are off gallivanting throughout Westeros and I am left here by myself?"

Rhaegar opens his mouth, possibly to appease her, maybe to answer her question, but likely to demand how she had come to know of his plans.

"Then I pondered the seven kingdoms themselves for a bit, and my thoughts inevitably drifted north, far north," She continues her words hardening like steel. "Until they arrived at Winterfell, or more accurately, to Lyanna Stark's bed."

Rhaegar remains silent, the type of soldier to observe instead of blindly attack.

His sister, however, is not that type.

"I have been a fool brother, but not blind. When you encouraged the rumours between you and the Stark girl I allowed it, for what did it matter if my husband had affections for a flat chested girl on the other end of the Kingdoms? What did it matter people laughed behind my back, taunted my weakness and your infidelity? That my husband crowned a fourteen year old child his Queen of Love and Beauty, bypassing his wife, his sister, the mother of his children?"

Rhaegar does not attempt to answer these questions.

"It didn't matter, for I will be Queen. I will sit by your side as a ruler of the Kingdoms, the rightful Queen. Until I happened upon your cup bearer – Derian, is it? – And intercepted the most interesting letter you'd intended for 'Sweet Lyanna', promising her undying devotion in return for her cunt."

"She is not a child, nor is she a whore, Margaery. She-''

"I know what she is. And if you think I will allow a child to usurp me or have her bastard son steal my daughters throne, you are a bigger fool than Aegon the Unworthy, though you share his vices. Are you going to collect a handful of highborn bastards on any maiden that catches your eye? Aiming for another Blackfyre rebellion?"

Rhaegars hand flexes, as if he is thinking of striking her but she does not fear him, she never has until now. "They will not be bastards, wife." She flinches at the title, ashamed that he still has this power over her (but she can't help it, no matter what he has done this is Rhaegar, her brother, her best friend and the only man she's ever loved) "I intend to marry Lyanna."

Margaery draws back, hissing in outrage like a serpent. "I am not Visenya Targaryen, and I do not intend to be Rhaenys either," She storms towards the door, her daughters hurrying to catch up with her as they clutch the silks of her skirt. "And you are no Conqueror."

Before he can speak another word she rips the door open and storms out, refusing to cry until she's reached her chambers. There she tumbles to the floor in a heap, clutching her daughters close. She holds her youngest to her neck, enjoying the press of her tiny little face. She buries her face in Rhaenys pale curls, hugging chubby Visenya close to her for warmth.

She vows to stop Rhaegar.

The next morning he leaves, headed north with his most trusted knights and guilt in his heart.

The next month, a war has erupted over Lyanna's kidnapping.

The next week, Brandon Stark and his father burn and her father forces her to watch.

The next day Varys comes to her promising the safety of her youngest daughter, but only her youngest and she sobs when she agrees.

But he is too late. Much too late.

Rhaegar meets Robert at the trident, heart soaring with the birth of his son, the Prince who was Promised. He smashes the Usurpers forces, thoughts on Lyanna in Dorne. He does not hear what has happened in Kings Landing until it is too late. He reaches the city to find his father murdered by the golden son and his wife and children killed by the father. His wife's body is strung up in the throne room like a banner and she is wearing her tiara and grandest gown with her wedding ring gleaming on her finger like beacon of betrayal and defeat, his children - dead, bloodied, mangled beyond recognition - wrapped in red at the foot of the throne. The Lannisters flee the city, Tywin never forgave the humiliation Aerys inflicted on him but to kill a woman and her daughters so brutally is unspeakable.

He does not allow a funeral to occur for his wife and children until people whisper about it, and he sits next to his wife's body until the smell is so horrible he can hardly stand it. He neither cries nor rages, he simply remains, loyal in death where he failed to be in life.

Lyanna arrives three months after the funeral, glowing with her son held close in a blanket of grey and white, and the people simply stare, unsure of what to do now with this new Queen. She sits tall beside him but power highlights her youth, her arrogance and all the other failures he had been so foolishly blind to before.

As he observes his wife blatantly ignoring a Lords request whilst daydreaming – probably about horses, the North or her son – he cannot help but ache for the chairs previous occupant.

_He aches for his wife._


	8. 1940s!Au  Margaery

The word _perfection_ tastes sweet on the tip of tongue as she recites it to herself every night before bed.

From the age of nine Margaery wanted everything just so, her life drawn in straight lines with sharp corners that she could easily spot coming from miles away. For other girls, _perfection_ was a mere dream, but not for the pretty young daughter of old English money and new French prominence. It was a reality for the girl in the silky dresses and pricey perfumes, the beautiful woman with the world at her feet.

_(What did it matter if her sweetest brother came back from the war a cripple, his eyes plagued with nightmares as long as he did not scream himself awake during one of her slumber parties?)_

Her grandmother taught her everything, all that she knew from her time as an heiress in the old money world, where decorum and grace were everything and she eagerly gulped down her tales of long silky gloves and feverish kissing in cloak rooms and ached for her turn.

_(Who cared if her charming brother went out and got some common girl pregnant and was turned away by their parents as long as the scandal didn’t spread too far?)_

So Margaery learns her part, and plays it with the skill of red carpet actress to the extent that she blurs the line between herself and the woman she strains to be. She charms her way up the social ladder, aspiring to be the star atop it, and fails (ignores) to notice the ruin the leaves behind her, the mess her family becomes in her absence.

_(Who cared if her favourite brother hid himself away and lost his inhibitions when he drank too much and whose gaze lingered too often on photos of handsome Prince Renly if women she needed lusted over him enough to help her for their own misguided gain?)_

And when she’s Queen, and sits high above them all, it is hard to see clearly.

_(Because what did it matter now that her parents’ marriage was in shambles, that Willas drank himself stupid to escape his nightmares, and Garlan’s child was born dead and that Loras hid himself in the shadows of societies expectations?)_

Because it was all _perfect_ when you looked at it from such a long distance.


End file.
